


your sadness, it is quite lovely

by gingerbread man (xphantomhive)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Closeted Character, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, but there's kind of a plot, even if it's an accidental plot, i guess, mostly - Freeform, my first time writing the full sex!, when do i not write something with a plot?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-21 23:35:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6062299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xphantomhive/pseuds/gingerbread%20man
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a good thing that time is your thing, because getting John to finally admit that he actually loves you has taken years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your sadness, it is quite lovely

He tells you he’s never done this before. He tells you he’s scared. He tells you he’s nervous. He tells you he can’t go through with it, won’t go through with it, won’t be able to look at himself the same anymore if he does. He tells you things you already know, things you’ve already heard him say, that he’s not-a-homosexual and he doesn’t love you. He doesn’t even like you. You’ve heard it all before. He’s said it all to you.

“John,” you say quietly, and he sobs, but you aren’t sure if it’s in pain or pleasure and the lines between are blurred, anyway. “John, it’s okay. You’re okay. This is okay. I’m still Dave, you’re still John, we’re still Dave and John, we’re still best bros. We’re still us. Breathe for me.”

He sobs again, takes his air in through breathy gasps and sighs and it’s hard to believe he was once a God of Wind. “I’m not gay, not gay, not, not, not-” he gives, and the rest of the words die in his throat when you move your fingers. He moans instead, small and almost hesitant, like he’s afraid. Afraid of enjoying this. Of enjoying himself. Of enjoying the idea of you fucking him. You lean forward on the heel of your free hand and kiss the tears in the corners of his eyes, and he pushes you away. It isn’t the first time he’s done that.

“You died,” he says when your thighs touch and he’s situated in your lap, fingernails digging crescent moons into your shoulders that will be gone in the morning. “You died, I watched so many versions of you die, too many, and I fucked things up with Davesprite, he _hated_ me by the end of the journey, I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up,” his mumbles become incomprehensible, and when you rock up against him his face falls against your shoulder and he lets out a strangled noise trapped somewhere between a sob and a scream.

“I’m not going to die anymore. We aren’t playing Sburb, and Davesprite died when the game died because he was a game construct, he wasn’t me,” you whisper harshly, and his head snaps up but he doesn’t look at you, he looks at your chest, and then he’s beating against it, telling you that Davesprite was real and he was _you_ and I fucked up because I never called him Dave, I always called him Dave _sprite_ , I knew he hated it. “John, look at me. Breathe. I love you.”

He digs his fingernails into your biceps this time, and the skin there is a lot softer, a lot gentler, and you know it’ll bruise and you won’t be able to wear short sleeves for a while. “You’re such a fucking fag, Dave,” he says, but you know he doesn’t mean it. He’s said it before. He’s said it to you a million times. He doesn’t mean it. You know he was raised in a religious home, and his dad was homophobic and he is, too. But he doesn’t mean to be. It isn’t his fault. “I don’t love you. You know I don’t love you. We’re best bros. This is just for some relief, I’m using you to get off, don’t you get that? I don’t love you. I don’t even _like_ you. I’m not gay.”

You drive your hips up, and he stops insulting you because the nasty words turn into moans and screams and his head falls limp against your shoulder again. “Not gay, not gay, not gay,” he repeats into your shoulder, the words muffled by your skin, and when you grab his hips and pull him down, he bites your shoulder and his mantra turns to a breathy little gasp. The same breathy little gasp you’ve been listening to for a month now, a month since the game has ended, a month since you kissed him, a month since he told you he wasn’t gay and didn’t love you. “I _hate_ you,” he sobs into your shoulder, and you kiss the top of his head. He smells like apples. He must have used your shampoo again.

“I love you,” you murmur into his hair, and his head is shooting up in a flash, his hands are against your chest and he’s trying to push himself away from you. “John.”

He stops. His hands are still on your chest but he isn’t trying to push away anymore, so you’ll count that as a win. You’re softening inside him but you don’t care, because this is all about him and he’s been your best bro since you were nine and you won’t let him suffer. If he needs you help, needs your reassurance, that’s more important than a pressing need to get off. “John, I want you to breathe, and then I want you to tell me you love me.”

“I don’t fucking _love_ you!” He wails, fingernails digging into your shoulders again, but it doesn’t hurt anymore. “I hate you, I hate you, don’t you get it? You don’t matter to me!”

He’s a liar. You know he’s a liar, he knows he’s a liar. You press your lips to his temple and he falls limp in your arms, almost like he’s given up, and you hold him up. You hold yourself up and you hold him up, because you’re an anchor and he’s your boat. You move your hips again, and he keens, biting your neck. You know it’ll leave a mark. You’re kind of glad it will. He tells you he isn’t gay but he’s hard against your stomach, and when you hit his prostate he _screams_ at the top of his lungs and you’re afraid the neighbors heart. “I’m not-!”

“John, you don’t have to be gay to love me. This doesn’t mean you’re gay. I know your dad-”

“Don’t you fucking say shit about my dad, don’t you dare-”

“-was homophobic, and you are, too. But this doesn’t make you gay, John. Loving me doesn’t make you gay. You don’t have to say you hate me to make yourself feel better. You can say you love me, John. You don’t have to pretend to hate me. Your dad wanted you to be happy, he wouldn’t have fucking cared if it was with me or some fucking chick you met at school or church who you “hit it off” with.”

He sobs into your shoulder. You suck a mark into his neck while you wait, a sign in big red letters that this boy is _yours._ John Egbert _is_ yours, he’s been yours since he was thirteen, but you’ve been his for longer. You don’t think he quite understands the fact that he is your _world._ Without John Egbert, you’re an empty shell of Dave Strider. “I love you, Dave. I love you, love you so much,” he sobs breathlessly against your skin, and you rock against him.

He spends himself between your stomachs and you finish inside of him, but he doesn’t really seem to care and neither do you. You slide out of him carefully, and he lays down next to you and stares at your chest. “This is gonna be gross if we don’t wash it, dude.”

“In a minute,” he says quietly. You would’ve thought he’d left. Went back to his own room to convince himself he doesn’t like dicks by watching some porn and pretending he was paying attention to the girl when really his eyes were only on the guy. “Can we just sleep now?”

“Sure,” you tell him, even though you’d rather get a shower because dried spunk is not something you’d like to deal with. But he’s already shifting closer, wrapping his arms around your middle and burying his face in your chest. You pull the purple wool blanket that Rose made for his birthday over the two of you, making sure it’s up to his neck. It only reaches your elbow, but you’ll live. “I love you.”

He tenses up, and you knew you weren’t quite past his “no homo” wall yet.

He gulps, and you think it must be him swallowing his pride. “I…” he’s hidden in your chest, and his voice is muffled, but you know he trailed off. “I-I love you too, Dave. I love you.”

You rub his back in slow circles. “I know.”

In the morning, he’ll probably deny ever saying that. Will probably tell you he has a date with some pretty girl he met on a speed dating internet, one that’ll just become another story for you to tell Rose and her girlfriend, Aranea, when they visit. You’re sure one day he’ll be able to tell you he loves you and mean it. You can wait.

You are the Knight of Time, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> whoo boy! this is the first thing i've ever written that is mostly sex. i'm asexual, so i'm more for very non-explicit sex.
> 
> i hope you liked this! i assume it tugged on your heartstrings. oh well, the thing where i write happy oneshots was good while it lasted.
> 
> \+ title is from "when the devil's loose" by a.a bondy.


End file.
